


Stranger Than You Dreamt It

by vocallywritten



Series: Gendrya AUs [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arya Stark Takes No Shit, Arya as Christine, But for real she's kinda dumb and way more tollerant of bullshit, But she is pretty sad and in a toxic relationship with an emo guy in a mask, Cause Christine is my girl, F/M, Improper Use of Ned Stark, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Phantom of the Opera AU, Sisterly Love, Sorry Ned Stark, but here it is anyway, did anyone ask for this?, except not really, probably, probably not, so there's that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 18:31:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20587097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vocallywritten/pseuds/vocallywritten
Summary: A mysterious ghost with a dangerous obsession haunts the Opera House of King's Landing.  Meanwhile, Arya Stark recieves singing lessons from an unusual teacher, an Angel of Music.Also known as my Phantom of The Opera AU that was meant to be a one shot but oops now it's ten chapters and I'm bitter.





	1. Overture

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings foolish mortals. Chapter two to come later tonight because god knows I can't hook anyone with this dry bullshit. But the musical does it, so so must I. Enjoy!

_ In King’s Landing, there is an opera house, abandoned, and in ruin. The seats, once pristine and upholstered with the finest velvet, and filled every night with eager audiences now sat empty, torn, and fraying. Feathers spilled from tears, and drafts blow them gently to the ground, where the once lush, expensive carpet is dusty, and covered with debris. Smoke still clings to everything, the smell mingling with the stink of mildew and dust. Everything is silent. No one has set foot in this building for the better part of three decades, untouched after the famous disaster that destroyed it. _

_ In the middle of the great room, lies a crystal chandelier. It’s shattered, bits of crystal broken and scattered all across the seats and carpet, untouched after it fell on the audience that fateful night. Some say it was the falling of this very chandelier that sunk the opera house for good. For many who were there that night swear a ghost had made the chandelier fall. _

_ And ghosts who try to kill patrons with lighting fixtures are terribly bad for business. _

_ If there is such a thing as ghosts, this would be the place for them. There is something cold and lonely about this place now. Perhaps it had always been cold and lonely. Perhaps that is what drew the ghost to these halls in the first place. There is an eerie stillness in the air, the only movement comes from the dust motes milling around aimlessly in the draft from holes in the ceiling, cracks in the walls. _

_ Something terrible did happen here, anyone can sense it. Maybe that’s why, even after all these years, even though no one can bring themselves to enter, the owners refuse to tear it down. For fear of incurring the wrath of whatever phantom had haunted them so many years ago. _

_ So there the old ruin sits, untouched, unwanted, and if a ghost really did exist, it certainly doesn’t seem to be in residence now. _

_ There was a time, however, when the opera house was the crown jewel in King’s Landing. There was a time when music, beautiful, rapturous music, rang through the halls. When the stage was free of cobwebs and dust, and lit up at all sides. The wooden accents decorating the stage would have been shining, buffed and polished before every performance. The bronze sconces both practical and decorative would have gleamed in the candle light. _

_ The seats, in their former glory, had been delightfully comfortable things, all the better to enjoy a lengthy production. Maids worked tirelessly to ensure that not a speck of dust settled on any piece of furniture in the opera house, and, as a result it was nothing less than a sparkling wonderland in its heyday.  _

_ The chandelier would have hung, resplendent, over the whole theater, the centerpiece of all its finery. _

_ This is the home the so called Opera Ghost would have known. And this is where the story begins. _


	2. Think of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaery is good but loud, Davos is splitsville, Renly and Stannis have no idea what they're getting into, the Phantom thinks property damage is a good prank, Brienne is over it, Sansa is shook, Arya is Trying Her Best, and Gendry's... there. Kind of.

The opera house was abuzz with unusual activity, and for the first time in a while, Arya Stark was glad for the distraction. She had not slept well the night before, and Madame Brienne was being exceptionally hard on all her dancers. The constant barrage of instruction and criticism on her “lackluster  _ ronds de jambes _ ” and “sloppy  _ temps de cuisse _ ” was quickly giving Arya a headache. She had always enjoyed dancing, though it was her sister who was on the fast track to becoming the Prima Ballerina, willowy and graceful as she was. 

Though in recent months, Arya had found her fondness for ballet diminishing in the wake of her lessons. She wanted to rehearse her dances less and less, the more her new tutor taught her. Dancing never made her feel as close to her father as music did, and, after his untimely death nearly a year before, she had never felt closer to him as she did now. Nearly all her time was spent her teacher these days, their sessions going long into the night.

It was beginning to catch up with her, she reflected as she fought back a yawn. Sansa had noticed. Sansa noticed everything, but now she was beginning to grow concerned, Arya could see it. The way Sansa’s blue eyes, so like their mother’s, like their brothers’, lingered on her after a slight stumble. The way her sister seemed to always be in her company these days, seeking her out. 

She would touch her more often now, too. Slight, gentle touches, to gain her attention, to offer comfort, but there was always an undercurrent to them, like she sensed Arya slowly slipping away, and she was trying to anchor her little sister to her.

Arya wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Her sister wasn’t looking at her at the moment though. No, her attention was fixed on the center of the stage, where Davos Seaworth, the sole owner of the Opera House, stood with two unfamiliar men.

“If I could have your attention, please,” Davos said, though his voice was powerless against the excited chattering of the chorus girls. He looked a bit helplessly at Madame Brienne, who dutifully clapped her hands, instantly silencing everyone on stage, chorus girl or no. He smiled appreciatively at her. Brienne inclined her head. “Thank you. Now, I’m sure you’ve heard some rumors about my inevitable retirement.”

Uneasiness churned in Arya’s gut, and several, more cautious whispers broke out around her. Davos had always been kind to her and her sister. Though he had never met their father, his reputation, and Brienne’s recommendation of their family, which had been practically glowing for stoic Brienne, had been enough for him to grant them certain liberties. Staying in the Opera House dormitories at a significantly reduced rate, for one. She and Sansa had sent every copper they had to spare to the rest of their family in the North since they arrived at the King’s Landing Opera. 

Davos had understood their plight. Whoever he had chosen as his successor might not be so understanding.

Holding up a hand, silence fell again, and Davos continued, “It should come as no surprise to you all that these were all absolutely true.”

The theater erupted, disbelief and concern echoing throughout the halls. Brienne clapped again, loudly. The silence that followed was rather reluctant, discontent humming in the crowd.

Davos gave them all a small, sad smile. “I want you all to know just how much all these years at the King’s Landing Opera have meant to me. I thank you all. I wish I could stay, I do, but the responsibility of this place has become far too much for a man of my age.” His smile faltered at that, and the whole troupe shifted uncomfortably, and Arya felt ice prickle up her spine. Theater people were a superstitious bunch. Arya used to think them silly for it. She didn’t anymore. “I think it’s time for me to live a quieter life with my Marya, so it gives me great pleasure to introduce you to the Opera’s new managers, Stannis and Renly Baratheon.”

Davos waved his hand, and bowed to the side like he was introducing an act. There was a smattering of polite applause, the performers at a loss for how to react. Arya took the opportunity to study the men, these new managers. They were an odd pair, she decided. 

The man on the right was young, or, at least, younger than the man beside him. His curly hair was a deep black, which set off his smiling, blue eyes. He looked, perhaps, a bit  _ too _ happy to be there, which was a direct contrast to the man on the left. With his stiff posture, and his stern expression, the older man looked like he regretted ever hearing the words, “Opera House”.

“Thank you, Davos,” the older man said, squaring his shoulders, though Arya wasn’t sure his shoulders could get any squarer. “My name is Stannis Baratheon, and this,” he gestured at the other man, who bowed theatrically, making the chorus girls giggle. “Is my brother, Renly Baratheon. We are delighted to meet all of you, I’m sure.” His voice was rather flat and bored.

There was a pause as everyone waited for Stannis to say more. When it became clear he wouldn’t, Renly stepped forward, clapping his hands, a grin on his face. “Well, we do hate to interrupt your rehearsal,” he flashed his audience a charming smile. “You are all doing great work here, and we both look forward to taking part in the legacy of this great theater. We’ve always been such admirers of the arts, haven’t we Stannis?”

Stannis hummed in disinterested agreement. “Shall we let them get back to their rehearsal then? I’d like to take a look at the accounts, Davos.”

Renly tut-tutted at his brother. “Come now, Stannis. We’ve only just gotten here.”

“The accounts aren’t going anywhere,” Davos agreed, amiably. “And before you go, I’d be remiss if I didn’t introduce you to a few people first.” A young woman dressed resplendently in a gown so bright and colorful, it would have looked garish anywhere outside the stage, walked confidently toward center stage. Davos gestured to her, as she held out her hand expectantly. “Our leading soprano of thirteen seasons, Margaery Tyrell.”

Recognition lit both of the new managers faces, and Renly was quick to grab her hand, placing a courtly, if not enthusiastic kiss to her hand. At least one of the managers, it seemed, was a fan of the Prima Donna’s work. Margaery offered them both a radiant smile.

“A pleasure, Ms. Tyrell,” Renly said. “An absolute pleasure.”

“Yes,” Stannis agreed flatly. “A pleasure.”

“The pleasure is all mine, gentlemen,” Margaery simpered.

Renly seemed on the verge of saying something else when his eyes caught on something just off stage. “Ah! There you are lad. Come here, we were only just making introductions.” Arya caught sight of a tall, broad figure, trudging awkwardly to the middle of the circle of theater people, and a strange sense of familiarity ran through her. Standing on the points of her toes, she tried to catch a glimpse of him through the crowd. “May we introduce, our nephew, and the opera’s newest patron, the Viscount Baratheon.”

Arya’s eyes widened in delighted surprise as her gaze found the Viscount, looking uncomfortable, and slightly abashed and nearly laughed aloud.  _ Gendry _ . Though, last time she had seen him, he had been the bastard son of the Viscount, unlikely to inherit anything with two legitimate brother ahead of him. She wondered how it was possible he was here, and found herself rather eager to talk to the opera’s new patron to find out.

With a fluttering in her stomach she couldn’t quite explain, she wondered if he knew she was here. Surely not. Surely if he had, he would have come sooner to see her. It was unlikely he was there for her at all, since his uncles had only just bought the opera, he was probably there for them. Gendry had, no doubt, forgotten all about the scraggly haired little girl he had befriended as a child. A lead weight settled in her stomach at the thought.

“Arya,” Sansa whispered in her ear, though if she was trying to be discreet about her conversation, she was failing spectacularly. Sansa towered so much over Arya that she had to bend quite far down to whisper and it was quite obvious what she was doing. Were this a normal sort of day, Brienne would have scolded them immediately for not paying attention. Thankfully, everyone was far too busy staring at the Viscount, who, after a brief introduction to everyone, was attempting to gracelessly excuse himself. “Did you know Viscount Baratheon had another son?”

“Yes,” Arya answered faintly, her eyes following Gendry as he walked quickly off the stage. “I did.”

Sansa had never paid much mind to Gendry when their father would take them to visit his good friend, Robert, the Viscount Baratheon. Eddard Stark, before an untimely illness had taken his life, had been a violinist of some renown, and when he travelled, he would often bring one or two of his children with him. Arya had dearly loved to go with her father, and would be the one most often at his side. 

The Viscount, Robert Baratheon had been a generous patron of Eddard Stark long before he had gained any fame for his playing, and would often invite him and his family to stay with him. As such, Arya had spent many a happy summer at Storm’s End, the Viscount Baratheon’s main estate, and it was there she had met Gendry Waters, a bastard boy with a stubborn streak that rivalled her own. He had been her favored companion in those years, one of her dearest friends.

While Sansa had been all too charmed by the oldest legitimate Baratheon, Joffery, and all too eager in those days to dismiss any company she didn’t think proper, Arya had been perfectly happy to befriend the surly boy. It didn’t surprise Arya that Sansa didn’t remember Gendry. She had barely acknowledged his existence in those days.

“He’s rather handsome, don’t you think?” Sansa breathed, sounding far too much like a younger incarnation of herself. Like a girl too focused on stories of dashing heroes and handsome knights. Arya rolled her eyes.

“I suppose he might be, if you like that sort of thing,” Arya said, trying to sound dismissive, though when Sansa’s lips curled in a knowing smile, she knew she had failed. For Gendry was handsome. She had always thought so, even when they were children. Even when he had been just as dirty and unkempt as she had. And he had only gotten more handsome with age. His face had lost the roundness of childhood, and he was broad and muscular. His hair was just as she remembered it, black and slightly messy, and his eyes were a peircing blue, though she couldn't see their color from where she stood. She tried not be bothered by Sansa noticing something she had always known.

She was saved from hearing Sansa’s response by Renly Baratheon’s boisterous voice. “I wonder, Ms. Tyrell, if you might grace us with a personal performance of the aria in act three of tonight’s production.”

Stannis blew out a frustrated breath, but Margaery preened at the request. “As my managers command.”

The whole troupe backed up as one, having worked with Margaery for long enough to know that she required space to work. She had a tendency to use the whole stage when she performed. Throwing up an arm dramatically for silence, she stood there for a breath, waiting for the music to cue her in.

When she began singing, Arya had the unkind urge to cover her ears. Not because Margaery was  _ bad _ . No, she had more than earned her status as Prima Donna. It was because Margaery was so gods damned  _ loud _ . She seemed to be under the impression that she had to show off exactly how far her voice could reach at all times, a handy trick for a full house, but when it was only them and an empty theater, her voice echoed around the opera house at an unbearable volume.

But as Margaery performed her aria, a strange, creaking sound came from just above the stage. No one paid it any attention. Stage hands were always making all kinds of noise up there, and everyone in the Opera House was no stranger to unexplainable noises.

Every eye was on the Prima Donna as she sang, playing to both new managers with sultry smiles, and coquettish eyes, milking the limelight for all it was worth, as she was usually wont to do. So no one noticed as the ropes securing one of the heavy backdrops were slowly untied. Arya felt a chill go down her spine.

The backdrop came crashing down, right over Margaery’s head and only a scream from one of the ballerinas gave her enough time to dive out of the way, letting loose a scream of her own. She hit the stage floor with a painful thump just moments before the backdrop landed right where she had been.

“It’s him!” A chorus girl shrieked over the rest of the startled exclamations. “It’s the opera ghost.”

“Hush now,” Davos commanded, and the room fell quiet. “Tom was at the rigging, I’m sure he can explain. Tom!”

“It weren’t me, sir,” a man protested from just off the stage. “I’ve been here the whole time, no one’s at that post.”

The room erupted again into chaos. Whispers of “Opera Ghost” and “The Phantom” could be heard over the din.

“That’s enough,” Stannis roared, quieting everyone again.

“It was an accident, my dear,” Renly soothed, going to help the lead soprano up.

Margaery Tyrell spluttered in outrage as she rose to her feet, unsteady with nerves. “An accident? Is that what you call it? If it were an accident, as you say, I could forgive it. But for the past three years, we’ve had many ‘accidents’, accidents  _ he _ never once addressed,” she shot Davos a glare. “And now you two come in and think after three minutes you understand what’s been going on here? Accident,” she scoffed.

“Ms. Tyrell,” Stannis tried to sooth, but Margaery only threw up her hands.

“No,” she said, backing away. “There are other places I can sing. Places where I would not have to worry about a forty pound beam landing on my head at any moment. So unless you can take some satisfactory precautions against these  _ accidents _ , I think I shall be going there.”

“Ms. Tyrell-”

“Goodbye Mr. Baratheon,” the Prima Donna nodded her head at one, then the other. “Mr. Baratheon.”

She left without another word.

“Well,” Davos said, too cheerily. “I think I’ll be going now. If you lads need me, I shall be in the Stormlands.”

He took his leave more quickly than a man of his age should have been able, leaving the Baratheons spluttering in his wake.

“Wonderful,” Renly said, crossing his arms. “Just wonderful. What are we going to do now?”

“She’ll be back,” Stannis said, though he didn’t sound certain. “Divas often have their little tantrums, do they not?”

“You think so, sir?” Madame Brienne asked, wryly, appearing in front of the managers rather suddenly for a woman so tall.

Stannis shot her an annoyed look. “Did you need something Miss-”

“Madame,” Brienne corrected. “Brienne and as it happens, I have a message from the Opera Ghost.”

“Do you now?” Stannis asked skeptically.

“I do,” she said, meeting his eye, daring him to call her a liar. When Stannis said nothing, she held out a yellowed parchment. When neither man move to take it, she huffed an impatient breath. “He merely writes to welcome you to his opera house-”

“ _ His _ opera house?” Renly sputtered.

Brienne ignored him. “- commands that you continue to leave box five empty for his use, and reminds you that his salary is due.”

“His  _ salary _ ?” Stannis asked, looking quite a bit like he had just swallowed his tongue.

“Davos gave him nine thousand gold dragons every month,” Madame Brienne raised a cool brow at the men. “That should be no great hardship, with the Viscount Baratheon as your patron.”

Stannis swore colorfully. “He was meant to come to the production tonight. We were going to make an official announcement then.”

“Is there an understudy for the role?” Renly asked, tiredly.

“I’m afraid not, my friend,” the conductor said, his dark curly hair bouncing as he shook his head. “The production is quite new, and Margaery Tyrell never missed a performance.”

“First time for everything,” Stannis intoned, dourly.

“Arya Stark can sing it, sir,” Brienne said, in a tone that invited no argument. Arya stiffened as she felt every eye upon her. Sansa was staring at her with so much surprise it might have been insulting had she not remembered all the times she had sung in front of her sister. Singing had been a loose word for it. As a child, Arya had been as tone deaf as they came, and, as far as 

Sansa knew, that had not changed.

“The ballet girl?” Stannis sneered.

But Renly had frowned at the mention of Arya’s name. “Stark, you said?” He asked as he waved her over.

Arya nodded. “That’s right.”

“Any relation to the Northern Violinist, Eddard Stark?”

“My father, sir.” She said, glancing back at Sansa, who’s eyes were glued, anxiously, to her back.

“Let her sing for you,” Brienne insisted. “She has been well taught.”

Renly sighed in defeat. “Very well. Do you the aria, my dear?”

Arya nodded. “Well enough.”

The older man made a gesture as if to urge her to get on with it. “Right, let’s hear it then.” He turned to his brother, muttering, “not as if we have anything to lose now.”

Arya stepped forward, suddenly hesitant, as an uncomfortable tingling moved it’s way up her legs, twisting her stomach into nervous knots. She hadn’t lied, she did know the piece well enough, she had practiced it the night before. It was why she hadn’t gotten much sleep. Her instructor had not allowed her to stop until it was perfect to his ear, and he was an exacting teacher. She had sung it, over and over again for hours. She knew it by heart.

But no matter how well she knew the piece, there was no escaping the fact that Arya had never performed for an audience before. Taking a deep breath through her nose, Arya closed her eyes. For the briefest, barest whisper of a moment, she thought she could hear her father’s voice floating down to her, an encouragement.

_ Arya… Arya… _

It was enough. She opened her eyes and began the song, wavering a little at first, but she drew breath from deep within her belly just as he had taught her and her voice became strong. A smile took over her face as she let the music guide her, let it tell her how it wanted to sound, what story it wanted told. 

After a while, she even began to relax, doing her best to remember what her instructor had said the night before, about opening her mouth just a little wider to project her voice more effectively, about where to position her tongue to get clearer sounding vowels. 

Margaery had sung in a way that showed off her skill, and, as a musician, she was a bit of a show off in general. When Arya sang, it was like she was bringing the music to life.

Her teacher’s most important lesson was the one she had little trouble remembering, that music was more than just notes on a page, it was every human emotion made real and tangible. Her father would say it often when he tried to teach her how to play his violin.

She became so wrapped up in the music that she almost didn’t notice when she arrived at the most challenging part, but that was alright. He had told her it was better to let go when making music, that the more she lost herself in it, the less likely she would be to make mistakes. She rarely questioned him these days. In the beginning she had been rude and outright dismissive, but the more time she spent with him, the more she saw he was right.

The notes were hit with ease, and, as the music finally came to a close, Arya came back to herself. To her shock, everyone around her burst into applause, and Brienne surreptitiously wiped away a tear, which, to Arya, was far more jarring than the applause. Sansa was staring at Arya as though she had never seen her before.

She looked to Stannis and Renly, one frowning in thought, the other openly grinning as he cheered with the rest of the crowd.

“I suppose that’s settled, then,” Stannis said, turning to leave. “Get Miss Stark set up in a dressing room. We don’t have much time before the opening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel kinda bad for making Margaery the bitchy Charlotta character but honestly, it was an idea, it stuck. Sorry Margaery.  
Also sorry about the maybe OOC Arya? I tried my best, but fitting untameable, fierce Arya Stark into a doe-eyed, ingenuine shaped box of a role was… difficult. All I can say is I hope I did alright.  
Anyway, thanks for reading!


	3. Angel of Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Gendry reunion and the official first appearance of the Phantom, featuring a kidnapping, non-con drug use, and that improper use of Ned Stark thing? This is what I was talking about.  
Pro tip: Don't pretend to be a girl's dad if you're trying to get in her pants. It's not going to help your cause.

The Viscount Gendry Baratheon was sitting in the finest box at the finest opera in all of King’s Landing, and he was already wishing he could be somewhere, anywhere else. The starch in his fancy clothes made them chafe and the collar of his shirt was far too high, rubbing uncomfortably against his neck. He always felt like a pretender when he dressed up like a high born, like he was seconds away from bursting out of this false skin.

His Uncle wasn’t helping matters either, with all his chattering.

“We have a new singer debuting tonight,” Renly whispered, eyes already on the stage, though the production hadn’t yet begun. “She’s quite something. I think you’ll like her.”

“I’m sure it will be wonderful, Uncle.” Gendry said tonelessly. Honestly, the only reason he had decided to become a patron to the opera house was because his uncles had bought it, and Renly had always been so kind to him as a child. Even when he was a no name bastard, Renly had been one of the few people who didn’t seem to care.

The other was a girl, fiery and willful. Gendry often wondered what had become of his childhood friend. He hadn’t seen her in years now, but he could still picture her perfectly, her messy, bird’s nest hair, her grey eyes, flashing with anger or mischief.

Wherever she was, he hoped she was safe. Happy. She would probably fall over dead with laughter to see him now, all trussed up in silly highborn finery. If she remembered him at all, that was.

Gendry was so lost in thought, he barely noticed when the lights in the theater dimmed. “It’s starting,” Renly whispered, helpfully, and Gendry rolled his eyes.

The production was a loud and colorful affair, Gendry decided. He wasn’t entirely sure why Renly was so enthusiastic about the opera. Perhaps it, in part, had more to do with Margaery Tyrell’s brother, who doted on her, and was at every performance himself.

Gendry squinted down at the stage, trying to figure out what was happening. Dancers pranced across the stage, twirling in perfect synchronization as the ensemble sang in High Valyrian, which, Renly had informed him, was the preferred language for operas these days. Gendry himself wasn’t sure why he ought to attend an opera if he couldn’t understand the language it was in. Stannis had snorted a laugh when Gendry had voiced his thoughts, but Renly had only sighed, sounding far more put upon than was earned.

“I’m lost,” the Viscount grumbled, crossing his arms.

Renly did that insufferable sigh again. “It only started three minutes ago.”

“Still lost,” Gendry said, slouching in his chair.

“They’re singing about the Dragon Queen, and how she was taken as a slave by barbarians. The opera begins with her trying to escape, and return to her people, and her love.” Renly explained, as quietly as possible. “They’re explaining that the Dragon Queen’s consort is distraught, and sends out a new retinue to search for his lost love every day.”

Gendry snorted. “I thought the Dragon Queen burned the barbarians alive and fled by herself on dragonback.”

Renly shrugged. “It’s an opera. It isn’t terribly concerned with historical accuracy.”

“Hmm.” He said, noncommittally. And then, after another long moment, squinting at the stage, “This was three hours long, you said?”

“With an intermission.” Stannis grumbled from his other side, startling Gendry a bit. He had forgotten he was there.

The young viscount sighed, settling in for a very long night.

And then a hush fell over the theater as the leading lady appeared at center stage, almost like magic. A spotlight blazed bright around her, giving her an ethereal glow. Her dark hair was pulled back with elaborate curls, and her dress was glittering in golds and deep reds and greens. She looked every inch the queen she was portraying and Gendry couldn’t help but stare.

Not because she was beautiful, though she certainly was that. There was something incredibly familiar about her, though it wasn’t until she started singing that his mouth dropped open.

For, there, before him, stood Arya Stark, his dear childhood friend. The one he had only just been thinking of. The coincidence of it all and his genuine happiness at seeing his old friend nearly made him laugh.

She had become even more beautiful in their time apart, he noticed, and had also become an incredibly accomplished singer. Her voice was beautiful, clear and high, but strong. He could hardly believe the little girl who used to chase him around with mud on her breeches, and sticks in her hair was the same woman before him now. But there was no mistaking her. Gendry would know Arya anywhere

“Bravo!” He called, clapping enthusiastically, as he was fairly sure that was what you were meant to do when you enjoyed a performance at the opera.

“There’s still more of the song left,” Renly hissed, gripping his arm to stop his applause.

Gendry paid him no mind as he grinned down at the stage. Arya Stark was here, a woman grown, making her debut as an opera singer of all things, and Gendry was, for the first time, very glad he had come to the King’s Landing Opera House.

_____________________________________

  


Arya left the stage in a daze, the sound of her name echoing softly with every step.

_ Arya… Arya… _

“Arya!” 

Arya blinked, surprised to see Sansa standing in front of her, grinning broadly. She scooped her little sister into a hug so fierce, Arya nearly lost her breath. “Oh Arya, you were incredible! How did you ever learn to sing like that? I had no idea you were even practicing and you turn out to be even more marvelous than Margeary Tyrell! What in the name of the seven is your secret?”

Arya looked around carefully, trying to see if anyone was listening to them. In the past few months, she had felt eyes on her, all the time. No matter where she went, she couldn’t escape the uneasy feeling that she was being watched. It made her paranoid.

“I have something to tell you,” Arya began, and Sansa’s face crumpled in concern. “Not here,” Arya looked around. “Come with me.”

“Arya Stark,” a stern voice called over all the excited chatter around them. Arya turned to see Madame Brienne, her lips turned up in a soft smile. “You did very well. _ He _ was pleased.”

Arya could only nod in thanks. She wasn’t sure how she felt about a ghost being happy with her performance, but a chill ran up her spine at the words. When Brienne was distracted with the dancers, she gripped Sansa’s hand and lead her down the hall. To Sansa’s credit, she said nothing, only allowed herself to be dragged.

“Do you remember those stories father would tell us?” She asked her sister quietly, after she had latched the door to her dressing room, though she could still feel a gaze, skittering, cold at her back. She took a breath and tried to ignore it “About the Angel of Music?”

Sansa furrowed her brow. “Of course, but I don’t see what-”

“Well,” Arya cut across her. “Father promised he would send us an Angel of Music to look after us when he died. And he has.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed. “The Angel of Music? That was a story-”

“It wasn’t. I’ve seen him. Father,” Arya said, fervently. “He’s come back to me, Sansa. He’s teaching me music, like he did before.”

Sansa blinked, words failing her as Arya met her eyes steadily. She didn't look like she was lying or japing. Sansa hardly knew what to make of it. “Father is dead, Arya,” Sansa said, gripping her hands tightly, as if she could physically press the knowledge into her sister’s skin.

“I know that,” Arya snapped, pulling her hands away, roughly. She glared at Sansa for a moment, then her shoulders crumpled on a sigh. “I know that.” She repeated, voice softer. “But he _ is _here, Sansa, I feel it.”

Sansa frowned, looking over the younger girl carefully. Arya had always been an energetic child, always running this way and that, getting in everyone’s way, badgering people with questions, but she had such a gregarious, happy nature, that no one tended to mind her being underfoot. But that had been before their father’s death. Before their lives had fallen apart.

Arya had taken their father’s death incredibly hard, especially after finding out their mother had neither the coin, nor the space to be able to send for them, and return them to the North. Instead, they were required to take up residence within the opera house, earning halfpennies a day as ballerinas in the ensemble.

She had hoped, given time, and a purpose, Arya would be able to move on from their father’s death, as much as a child can move on after the death of a beloved parent. And for a while, it had helped. These past few months, however, Sansa had noticed a troubling change in her sister. 

She would disappear at odd times, she was late to rehearsals, and she rarely showed up for meals. Her skin had taken on a waxen kind of paleness, and dark, purplish bruises etched themselves under her eyes, which were often bloodshot. And, more concerning to Sansa than everything else, was the way her sociable sister had become withdrawn and jumpy, flinching at loud noises, and shying away from all but Sansa’s touch. She wasn’t even sure Arya realized she was doing it.

“It’s his voice, Sansa,” she said, voice a reverent whisper. “I know it sounds mad, but it’s true. It’s father’s voice that comes through these walls. It’s father who has been teaching me all these months.”

Sansa could only stare at her sister, disbelief and horror writhing in her gut. “Arya, listen to yourself-”

Arya’s face crumpled, and it rankled Sansa, to see her so vulnerable. “You don’t believe me.” Her little sister whispered, she turned feverish grey eyes to her. “You would if he visited you too, then you would see. I’ve asked him to see you, Sansa, I swear I have. I don’t understand why he hasn’t.”

Her sister looked so impossibly young in that moment, and Sansa’s heart clenched as she saw a glimpse of the girl Arya tried to pretend she wasn’t anymore. The stubborn little girl, desperate to cling onto any piece of her father she could find.

“Arya,” she said carefully. “I don’t know who you think has been teaching you, but perhaps it would be best if you stayed in my room tonight.” She reached out and, very gently, touched the dark circles under Arya’s eyes. “You need rest, and I would feel better if I had you near.”

Arya wrenched away, glaring furiously at her. “You think I’m crazy.”

“No,” Sansa protested, reaching again for her sister, fearful she would bolt. “Of course not. I just think something isn’t right here. I think you know that too,” she shot her sister a pointed look. “And until we figure it out, I want you with me. Alright?”

Arya worried at her lip, conflicted. “He won’t like that.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes. “If it really is Father, I doubt he’ll mind his daughters spending time together.”

Arya fisted her hand in her dress. How could she tell Sansa about her lessons when she clearly thought her mad? How could she tell her about the Angel of Music, and his rules? His insistence that she come to her room at certain times, how she wasn’t allowed to bring anyone with her. How, if she was late, if she missed even one meeting with her strange teacher, had one misstep, he would take it as her forsaking him and never return to her. Arya had only just gotten her father back, she couldn’t endure losing him again. And she couldn’t tell Sansa any of it. She saw now her sister would never understand.

“I should change,” Arya said, glancing away.

Sansa sighed. “Don’t go to your room tonight, Arya.” There was a desperate plea in her voice. “Come straight to mine.”

Arya nodded stiffly. “Alright.” She knew Sansa could taste the lie, but she only squeezed her shoulder, the way their mother sometimes would, and walked out to let her change. The door closed quietly behind her.

There was something sad, and final about the sound.

\-----------------------------------------------

Arya had long changed into dressing gown, though she hadn’t quite gotten around to removing the stage makeup that had been painted on her hours before. It was silly and gaudy up close and in the softer candle light. On the stage

She found herself staring into the vanity mirror, her gaze fixing dispondantly on her kohl lined eyes, her red, painted lips, slightly smeared from biting. She looked nothing like herself, but while she would have found that revelation off-putting a year ago, now it was a strange kind of comfort. If she wasn’t herself, wasn’t Arya Stark, she didn’t have to dwell on Arya Stark’s burdens. It was almost like having a new face, a new identity. One where she didn’t have strange voices calling to her in the night, or eyes following her every move.

For a moment, she felt like she could breath.

_ Arya… Arya… _

Her eyes slammed shut, and when she opened them again, the effect was gone. Hands shaking, she scrubbed at her face, more roughly than she needed to. She nearly knocked over the bowl in her haste, and swore as water sloshed onto the wood of her vanity.

“Stupid,” she barated herself, under her breath. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Arya was getting a bit too good at lying to herself.

With her face scrubbed clean, she looked much younger, and a little smaller. Meeting her own gaze in the mirror, she drew herself up, and took a deep breath. It was time to leave, she knew. It was getting very late, no doubt her Angel was becoming impatient.

She wondered how angry Sansa would be when she didn’t come to her room that night. But Sansa didn’t understand, she reminded herself. Arya rose quickly, hoping that Sansa hadn’t thought to wait outside for her, when her door opened.

She whirled around, eyes wide.

“Sorry,” a male voice said, sheepishly. “I should have knocked.”

Arya sighed her shoulders relaxing. She must have stayed in here longer than she thought. It was only one of the stage hands come to clean out her room, no doubt. “It’s alright. I was just leaving.”

“Don’t go yet,” the man protested, coming into the light. “I was hoping to talk to you.”

Arya blinked, unsure of what she was seeing. “Gendry?”

“I was hoping you would remember me,” Gendry’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. "It’s good to see you, Arya."

A delighted laugh escaped her lips, and, in that moment, it was like all her anxiety had fled at the arrival her old friend. "It’s good to see you too, Gendry. Or should I call you viscount?" She asked, a mocking smile curving her mouth. "How does one address a viscount anyway?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, though it was a playful expression. "_ You _ should call me Gendry."

"Are you sure? Maybe I could go around calling you milord."

"That won't be necessary." His neck was flushed and Arya grinned at seeing him so bashful. Then he looked down at the rose in his hand, looking as though he had forgotten he had it, and thrust it toward her. “Ah..” he floundered. “This is for you.”

Arya took the rose with a smile, and set it on the vanity. “Thank you, _ milord _,” Gendry huffed out a laugh, but Arya looked away then, feeling suddenly, uncharacteristically shy. "You've certainly come up in the world."

Gendry hummed good naturedly, though he still looked uncomfortable with talk of his newfound status. “So have you.” Arya flushed. “I’ve been informed I had the honor of watching your debut. My Uncle Renly seems to think you have quite the future here.”

Arya shook her head. “I was only stepping in for Margaery Tyrell. She’s the one all those people came to see. I’m sure they were incredibly disappointed to see me up there instead.” The words were humble, but her tone was wry, sarcastic, and Gendry chuckled.

“Now that just isn’t true. I don’t know anything about opera or singing, but you,” his gaze swept warmly over her. “Were incredible.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re being too kind.”

"Not at all. Though, the girl I knew could hardly carry a tune in a bucket." He teased. "Where’d you learn to sing like that?"

Arya bit her lip, a cloud coming over her expression. "It's a long story." She hedged, remembering Sansa’s face when she tried to explain her Angel.

"I’ve got time to listen." His expression was gentle, honest, and for a wild moment, it was like no time had passed between them at all. For a moment, Arya wanted to tell him everything. Wanted to pour out every lonely night, filled only with the ghost of a father that now demanded so much of her, of her constant fear of disappointing him, and forcing him away, of her sister’s too-gentle hands and too-prying eyes. She looked away.

“Gendry,” she said, quietly, looking down in her lap. She had been away too long already. If she didn’t go soon, her father might never return to her.

“Are you hungry?” Gendry asked, a strange expression on his face, and Arya got the unsettling feeling that he had seen too much in her own face. “Let’s discuss this over supper.”

He turned back to the door and Arya made to follow him, her heart stuttering with panic. “Gendry, no, I-”

“I’ll just be a moment,” he said, already at the door. “You change, and I’ll ask for the carriage to be brought around.” And with a smile, he was gone, the door shut behind him.

Uneasiness settled in Arya’s stomach as she stared for a moment at the space Gendry had only just occupied.

Someone had lit incense in her dressing room, though she couldn’t remember if it had been there before Gendry had arrived with his roses and his invitations to dinner. None of which she could accept. The whole thing made her head ache, and the heavy smell of incense in the air only served to make her dizzy.

She sat down heavily in her chair, muscles suddenly rubbery with exhaustion. It had been a very long, confusing day, and now Arya was sure that the only thing she wanted to do was fall onto her bed in the opera dormitories, and sleep for a week. 

Arya took a deep breath to steady herself, and closed her eyes when everything spun and the world tilted. Blinking with heavy eyes, she tried to look around the room, which had become hazy, and almost dreamlike around her.

“_ Arya _ ,” a voice called. “ _ Arya. _”

A sigh of relief escaped her lips when she heard it. Her father’s voice. He had come to her after all. He hadn’t abandoned her yet. She was weak with relief. “Father,” she cried. “You found me.”

“_ My child, you are distressed _ ,” her father’s voice echoed in the room, seeming to come from every corner at once. “ _ What has happened? _”

Her shoulders slumped, heavy with a shame made more potent by her strange exhaustion. “I-I told someone about our lessons.”

“_ The boy? _” Her father’s voice was sharp, and Arya flinched.

“No,” she protested around a heavy tongue. “Sansa, father.”

“_ My poor child _ ,” the voice soothed and Arya was glad to see he wasn’t angry with her. “ _ When has Sansa ever understood you? She does not accept you. She never has. Poor child, _ ” he mused, “ _ So lonely. So misunderstood. This is why I told you to stay away from the others. Now you see. No one will ever understand you. No one but me. _”

Arya wanted to protest, to defend her sister, though she had entertained similar thoughts not an hour before. But her mouth would not move and her head swam.

“_ My Arya _ ,” her father whispered. “ _ I’ve come to take you home. _”

There was a strange lightness to her body, and time seemed to move around her in a stuttering rhythm, for one moment she was alone, and the next, there was a black, gloved hand in front of her. Blinking slowly, Arya brought her head up, feeling a bit like she was under water. A man dressed entirely in black stood before her, his face obscured in shadow.

“Arya,” the man said in her father’s voice, clearer than it had ever been. Arya felt her entire body relax. It was her father. He had come for her, just like he promised. “Take my hand.”

Arya took it without thought, and let herself be led through a peculiar door she didn’t remember seeing before. None of it seemed terribly important at the moment, as she, with her father’s sure hand guiding her, walked into the secret door without a backward glance.

It slid shut behind them with a sharp _ snick _, and all that remained was the mirror.

Gendry entered the room not five minutes after, and found it empty, frowning, he leaned out of the door, and called to the man sweeping up at the end of the hall. “Did Arya Stark leave already?”

The man shook his head. “No one’s been out of that room in the twenty minutes I’ve been here, except you, sir.”

A furrow appeared between his eyes, and he scanned the room. Empty, and the candles were all blown out. Gendry tried to ignore the uneasy feeling settling in his stomach. “You must be mistaken,” he said to the man. “There’s no one here.”

The man shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you, sir,” his face split into a crooked smile, showing his yellowing teeth. “Maybe the ghost got her.”

Gendry couldn’t explain why, but the jape made his hair stand on end. With a final look at Arya’s empty dressing room, he spun on his heel. She had to be somewhere, and if he couldn’t find her, he would find someone else who could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, Music of the Night. Thanks for reading!


End file.
